


November: Drabble Every Day - 2017 Drabbles

by crossingwinter



Series: November: Drabble Every Day [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-01-27 22:15:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 16,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12591708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: I plan to write a drabble every day in the month of November.





	1. stone by stone (howland)

howland returns to find that ned is still sitting, staring at her.  the nursemaid wylla is clutching the babe to her breast and ned is just staring at her.

“i’ve brought them,” howland tells ned quietly sitting down beside him.  “i’ve brought them.  they’ll tend to her and bring her north.  i’ve told them everything.”

“did you tell them that–”

“yes, they know about the stonemason.”

“and if anyone gives them trouble, it’s a command from…from the lord of winterfell,” ned’s voice breaks when he says the last three words.  he is trembling, the sort of trembling that came from a man trying very hard not to cry.  

“they know.  it will come easier for them if you write it down and sign it with your own hand, my lord.”

“don’t,” ned says sharply.

“my lord,” howland repeats now.  “best get used to it.”

“not today, please.  tomorrow.  or the day after.  just not now.  not while lya…”  ned gulps, and cannot finish the sentence.  he finally looks at howland and then at the door.  three silent sisters are standing there, waiting.  howland had found them in a village they’d passed through only that morning.  he’d seen the star of the seven, had dreaded the idea that they would soon be needed, but made note of them all the same.  he nods to them, and they enter the room.

“ned, come on.  we should leave them.”

ned lets go of lyanna’s hand and turns to look at last at the nursemaid, clutching her boy.  “i intend to go to starfall,” he tells wylla.  “if you would be so good at least to travel that far with us, i would be grateful.  the boy is too young to be without a moth–a woman’s milk.”

“yes, my lord,” wylla replies.  “it’s my home.  ser arthur sent for me.”

“i’m bringing ser arthur’s sword home to his brother and sister,” ned says.  “he fought honorably.”  

“and what of his body, my lord?” wylla asks, her voice shaking as though nervous to even ask the question.

“cairns,” ned says.  “we shall bury them all here.  them, and my companions who perished on their swords.”  he turns to howland.  “we’ll use the stones from the tower.  no one will ever live or die here again.”

he stands and leaves the room.  howland glances at the women–the three sisters who are already cleaning lyanna’s body of blood, and wylla who is still nursing her son.  then he follows ned, who had continued up the circling stairs to the top of the tower.  

“the tower of joy,” ned says bitterly.  “the tower of despair, more like.”

howland reaches up to rest a hand on ned’s shoulder.  his friend is taller than him.  even lya had been taller than him.  he can still smell her blood.  there was a difference to the scent in that chamber and the bleeding lip that he’d helped tend when she had ridden as a false knight.   _and now she’s gone.  she’s gone.  lya’s…_  he swallows.  how can he keep ned from crying if he cannot contain his own tears?

ned is leaning against the battlements.  “the stones are loose,” he says.  “the mortar is weak, i think.  it’s almost like it was built in haste for just this purpose.”  he sounds like he was trying to convince himself of something.  then he looks down.  there’s nothing below, their horses are on the other side of the tower, with the corpses.  then he shoves, hard and a large stone from the battlement falls.  he shoves again, and again.  “help me,” he tells howland and now there’s anger in his voice.  

so howland helps him.  

stone by stone, they tear the tower down.


	2. art and time (luwin)

_“luwin it’s a waste of time.”_

the heat on his face was as hot as he’d ever felt.  hot as dragon flames?  it was said that that was how–no.  he was to be a maester.  he should not deal with “it was saids,” only what was fact.  “ _but sometimes, when it comes to magic, hearsay is all we have,”_ archmaester bellamor had said.  valyrian steel was not magical–men could make it with their own hands.  there were smiths who boasted being able to work the metal.

 _but it was said to be forged in dragonfire,_ some boyish voice said in the back of his mind.  

“ _we’ll be drinking if you ever come to your senses,”_ his friends had said on more than one occasion.  luwin had ignored them.  they always had some way to tease.  when he’d first arrived at the citadel, they’d been shocked that an iron islander could even speak the common tongue.  “ _i heard it’s only ever grunts and growls across the sea,”_ hidren had laughed, the same friend who had told him time and time again that beer was a more sensible pursuit than the magic link.

he had come to his senses–and months before.  there was no magic in the world, and if there had been once– _if_ –then it had finally died when the dragons had breathed their last.  but if he was going to sink this much time in the study of it all, he would at least forge a valyrian steel link for the chain he’d one day wear about his neck.  

but the link was harder to forge than any other metal he’d melded thus far.  it did not surprise him, but he’d not thought it would be quite so hard.  to melt it down fully–he felt as though his skin was melting off too.  and even the water he drank did not cool him down, so hot was the forge around him.

 _it has to have been dragon flames,_ he thought as he watched the metal grow hot.   _it has to have been.  no man can live like this.  and i only seek to make a chain link, not a sword, not armor._ it was known (it was  _known)_ that the valyrians had ridden to war on dragonback wearing armor of valyrian steel.  how could they  _not_  have used their dragonflame to make it?  dragonflame burned hotter than any manmade fire.  that, too, was known.  

“ _dragons are weapons–the finest weapons ever used in westeros,”_ he’d heard time and time again in his history lectures.

“ _dragons are magical,”_ bellamor had told him, before listing off the properties of their blood and bone and scales.  

“dragons are artists,” luwin heard himself murmuring deliriously in the heat as he watched, at last, the valyrian steel lose all solid form and he tipped it, carefully, into the mold.


	3. can you do that, my mariah? (mariah)

“it is a good match, mariah.”

“a good match to a lesser prince?  when i have all of dorne to my name?”

“sit, my love.”

“sit? so you can tell me that i’m young and impetuous?”

“you are ever young and impetuous.”

“ _father._ ”

“would you not hear my reasons, my love?”

“you would sell me and my birthright both to this mad targaryen king who is no better than his brother just because he walks across the deserts alone instead of riding with thousands of men at his back.”

“baelor is…a strange man.  but he wants peace, as do i.”

“and i want my birthright.”

“and you shall have it.  as queen of the seven kingdoms, you shall remain of paramount importance in dorne.”

“i won’t be queen of the seven kingdoms.  you would have me marry the king’s nephew, not the king’s son.”

“and if the king has no sons–which i do not doubt–then the crown shall, in time, pass to his nephew daeron.”

“he’s young.  he may have–”

“the king has taken a vow of chastity and never lies with his wife.”

“no–he locks her and her sisters in a tower.  i’ve heard the truth of that.  you cannot say you approve, father.”

“i do not, but i also cannot change it.”

“simply send your heir to that den of dragons.  father, i do not wish to marry a northerner.  they are cruel to their women.  everyone knows.”

“then you, my love, can do more in the north than ever you can do in dorne.  you can sway the mind of a king, the ways of a culture.  listen to me.  they say prince daeron is said to be a bookish boy, and a kind one.”

“sometimes the bookish ones are the worst.  they think they know more because they can read.  i can read too.”

“i know  you can read, my love.  that is not what i’m saying.  what i’m trying to say is that word of daeron is–not that he’s smart–but that he’s  _good_.  i would not wed you to him if the rumors of him were like the rumors of his father, or even if he were like his uncle the king.  but i hear something different of prince daeron and that has me…intrigued.”

“intrigued.  and me safely out of the way and peace so that maron can rule in my stead.”

“i would never wish you safely out of the way.”

“then do not send me to marry–”

“it is done, my love.  you have a few years yet to settle to the idea.  write to your betrothed, and come to know him if you like.  but it is settled.”

“so all of this was for nothing, then?  everything i’ve been learning, everything i’ve been preparing for rule?”

“nothing?  on the contrary my love.  you are better prepared than any other princess who has ever wed a prince.  and you are better placed than any archer in the dornish marches, or any warrior on horseback to  _win_  the war for us.  can you do that, my mariah?  can you win our peace for us?”


	4. Duncan

“Well?” Dunk asked the moment that Aegon emerged and he grinned at his friend.

“A boy,” he said. “She’s had a boy. Thick thatch of dark hair and a pair of lungs like that old blacksmith in Gulltown.”

Dunk grinned too, and clapped a hand on Aegon’s shoulder. “Congratulations, my prince.” Aegon made a face. Aegon did not like it when Dunk called him ‘my prince,’ no more than he liked it when Dunk called him Aegon.

But his little egg-headed squire wasn’t a boy any longer. He was a man grown, a prince, and now a father. “And how fairs Princess Betha?”

“She sleeps,” Aegon said at once. “I thought for a moment she’d strangle me during the birth, but when it was over she was too tired.” He gave Dunk a look that was half a smile, half a grimace. “I’d heard women say that childbirth is painful, but I don’t think I’d ever seen Betha scream like that. She’s not one to admit when she’s in pain.”

“No,” Dunk agreed, remembering their first meeting as children. “No, she’s not.”

“But the maester says she should make a full recovery, and that for her it was a comparatively easy birth—whatever that means.” He shuddered. “It didn’t _look_ easy to me.”

“She got through it, though,” Dunk said. “And you’ve an heir now. Have you told your father?”

“Not yet,” Aegon said. “I wanted to tell you first.”

Dunk gave him a bemused look. “Me? Why? I care for you, but the boy’s not my—”

“Betha and I are to name him Duncan.”

Dunk froze, truly froze, lungs and heart stopping at once.

Aegon reached for his arm. “It’s not a Targaryen name, or even a Blackwood one, but it’s his name all the same. You’re a truer friend than any I’ve had, and a brother to me at times—not to mention the three times you saved my life.”

“Four,” Dunk said automatically.

“Three,” Aegon corrected. “The time in the Neck doesn’t count.”

“Four,” Dunk repeated, his voice thick. “My prince, you do me great honor.”

“Perhaps. But it was the love I bear you I wished to honor.”

And then Aegon hugged him—not as if he were a boy with no hair, frightened, alone, but as a friend would hug a friend. “I’d not have met Betha if not for you,” Aegon said when they broke apart. “And I’d not have my son at all. Thank you, Ser Duncan. For all you are.”

 


	5. cersei & lysa

there were three new singers at court.   _three_.  she could hear them practicing all day, wherever she went–in the gardens, in the courtyards, in the galleries, practicing, practicing, practicing.  and, worse, she could hear lysa arryn’s simpering giggles.   _“oh you didn’t write that for little old me, did you?”_   _“your voice is as sweet as honey, markus.” “sing me another one, devon.  a happy one of young lovers.”_

it was enough to make cersei scream sometimes.  bad enough that she had to put up with lysa arryn at all–robert was constantly insisting that they all dine together.  jon arryn was dry and boring, and lysa–

“what sort of singers do you like, my queen?” lysa had asked her when first they had both arrived at court.

“i don’t.”

“you don’t?  not even a little bit?”

“no.”

she was doing this on purpose.

* * *

lysa had no issue with  _red_.  she was a tully after all, and had been raised with the red and blue of riverrun.  riverlands red, they’d called her hair when she’d been a girl.  but she did have an issue with lannister lions everywhere, and with every new tapestry that cersei had made or the red keep, there seemed to be  _another_  lion on it.

she’d  _even_  had the gall to have one made of a lion hunting a stag.  robert had laughed when he’d seen it, but didn’t she see how treasonous that could be?  and, worse, it was  _ugly_.  

she did not fancy cersei lannister’s taste–beyond the lions everywhere.  lannisters may be richer than everyone else in the kingdoms combined, but that apparently did not account for taste.  cersei’s was  _gaudy_ , so much gold everywhere, constantly showing off just how  _much_  she had.  she might as well have worn a gown made of golden dragons, or had a tapestry of them just hanging off the walls if she liked her gold so much.  

* * *

there was music everywhere and cersei hated it.  if she was never to have a moment’s peace between robert’s drunkenness and lysa arryn’s singers, the  _least_  she could do was order more tapestries to try and muffle the noise.

* * *

the ugly tapestries were so stuffy, and lysa was  _sure_  that cersei ordered them just to spite her.  how could she not?  the most recent one had featured a lion eating a fish and a bird.  how else was she to interpret that other than that cersei hated her and wanted both her and jon dead.  but when she’d told jon that, he’d merely laughed and called her his “silly wife” and there was nothing silly about lannisters wanting you dead.

the singers eased her mind at least, let her escape the red keep and memories of more and more children failing in her womb.  

and if they annoyed cersei lannsiter, well…that made their songs all the sweeter.

* * *

“between our wives, the court quite shines with art,” jon arryn had the gall to say over dinner.  “lysa’s singers, and her grace’s wall hangings.  some maesters say that a success of a kingdom is shown by the art produced, not the wars won.”

 _i’ll give you a successful kingdom, you old fool,_ cersei thought angrily as robert barked a laugh and said, “don’t be stupid, jon.  everyone knows that a kingdom’s strength comes from being undefeated on the battlefield.  i showed that to greyjoy only last year.  we didn’t win pyke with lysa’s singers.”

* * *

“i hadn’t thought there were enough walls for more hangings,” lysa asked cersei when she came upon her in the courtyard, looking over a new tapestry.

“oh, yes, some of the old ones are a little too drab.  i’ve taken them down and will be rehanging the walls.  i am torn about what to do with them–it seems….tragic that they end up just stored away.  would you like one as a coverlet, lysa?”

lysa stared at her in abject horror and cersei smirked.  “or, perhaps, we can have them repurposed.  i don’t know very much about sewing, i’m afraid.  my father never had me learn needlework as a girl.  do you think that we could turn them into dresses of some sort?  they would be ever so fine.”

lysa was seething.  now she’d have to see cersei  _wearing_  the tapestries too?

* * *

cersei did not feel any particular guilt when she had knives sent after one of lysa’s singers.  this one couldn’t even keep a tune, which was why she was certain that lysa had had him position himself near her chambers expressly.

a singer who couldn’t keep a tune wasn’t worth the air he breathed, so his body was to end up in the river, and lysa would always wonder what had become of the sad thing while cersei enjoyed a moment of quiet before lady arryn found some new singer for her to dispose of.

* * *

lysa fled the red keep in the dead of night, her son clutched to her side as she hurried to the docks and a little ship that petyr had promised to get them to gulltown and quickly.

it wasn’t until they were safely aboard and the moorings had been loosed and she and her baby were  _safe_  that the horrid thought came to her.

she hadn’t even left a singer behind to annoy cersei, so engrossed had she been in poisoning jon.

but cersei’s tapestries remained in the keep.

cersei had won.


	6. galladon

“will this one live, mother?”

“hush, galladon.  you don’t wish ti bring evil spirits into the room.”

“you said my other sisters died.  will this one?”

“she is strong,” was all his mother said.  galladon chewed his lip.

brienne didn’t  _look_  strong.  she looked small, just like the alysanne had.  (he could not remember arianne, but he suspected she looked small too.)  her face was red and crinkled and she had no hair at all.   _i thought babies were supposed to be cute_ , he thought, but he didn’t say that allowed.  he was named for ser galladon of morne, the perfect knight, and perfect knights didn’t say that their baby sisters were ugly.  in fact, they should not ask if they wondered if they would live at all.

“i’m sorry, mother,” he said.  “she will live, i’m sure of it.”

lady briony rested a hand on his head, petting his hair.  “yes,” she said, “i think so too.  but she will be small for quite some time, my love, so you must promise to protect her.”

“i will,” galladon said firmly.  that seemed like a proper task for the perfect knight.  “we’ll gather seashells together, and i’ll teach her to swim.  do you think she’ll like that?”

“in a few years, when her arms and legs are strong enough, she should,” lady briony replied.  “if she’s anything like you and me, she will never wish to be away from the water.”

galladon nodded importantly and looked back at his tiny sister.  she was  _so_  small.  his mother had been so big by the end–it hardly seemed a fair exchange.  brienne hadn’t seemed to have needed all that space inside her.  

“when will she be grown?” galladon asked her.  “and how big will she get?”

his mother chuckled.  “she’ll grow as fast as you do, and be as large as she’ll be.”

“will she be tall like father?”

“mayhaps.”

“will she be taller than me?”

lady briony smiled.  “mayhaps.  you’d best not stop growing, just to be sure.”

“i don’t want brienne to be taller than me.”

“then be sure to eat your beets and broccoli.  they’ll make you strong.”

“but they taste icky.”

“then don’t come crying to me when your sister is taller than you are.  i’m sure brienne will eat her beets and broccoli.”

galladon looked up at his mother in horrror, then back at his sister.  “you’d best not be bigger than me,” he told his sister.  “i’m father’s son and heir.  i’m going to be the perfect knight one day.  i’ll keep you safe.  so you don’t  _need_  to be bigger than me.”

in response, brienne only burbled.  but galladon thought that maybe she was agreeing.

 

 


	7. catelyn

catelyn had not known what to expect from motherhood.  her own mother had died when she was so young and she could not remember her.  she had tended to edmure and lysa, yes, but they’d had nursemaids for most of their needs.  

it felt odd to have a nursemaid look after her son–not least when catelyn was so anxious about aerys’ forces winning the war, her father and uncle slaughtered, her husband dead, her branded a traitor and likely killed like brandon.  would her babe be spared?  she did not dare hope.  so she tended to robb every day, feeding him from her own breast though a wetnurse could easily have been procured for her.  

she loved her robb, the intensity with which he looked about him as she brought him through the castle, how warm and soft his skin was, how he seemed to have her father’s chin even in the early days of plump baby fat.  she loved the weight of him in her arms, and was proud of how swiftly he grew, guzzling greedily from her breast.  he was, according to the nursemaid, an easy babe.  he cried for food of for tired or for discomfort, but for the most part burbled contentedly, grabbing at whatever was within range of his tiny fists.

he was a sweet distraction from war, a pool of life in a field of death.  it made it hard to look away from him, but while her father and uncle warred, catelyn…catelyn stark ruled in riverrun–overseeing the castle’s stores, making sure the battlements were properly armed, and that the sliuce gate open so that water was on all sides in case tywin lannister bestirred himself from the rock in aerys’ name.

she had hoped that lysa would help.  her sister was more than a girl now–a woman wed as well, and–if the gods were just–she would be lady of the eyrie and help her husband run the great castle of the arryns.  but lysa was constantly glum, and her eyes filled with tears whenever she saw catelyn with robb.  and far from taking comfort in catelyn’s child, she would leave the room, as though she could not bear the sight of catelyn’s boy.

catelyn did what she could for her sister, as a tully of riverrun should.   _family_  was the first of  _family, duty, honor,_ after all, but lysa seemed resistant to most of catelyn’s attempts to sooth whatever ill she felt, and her mood only seemed to blacken more. lysa, her sweet sister, who had loved song, and dance, and was always laughing with petyr.

lysa was like everyone else in riverrun–tense with fear for what the war would do to them.  there were no smiles or songs in the castle anymore, no laughter ringing in the courtyard.  there was only quiet, and, from time to time, robb’s tears when he grew hungry or tired.

but wars end.  they always do.  and when word that rhaegar had fallen at the trident, reached them, that ned was riding south to take king’s landing, catelyn felt joy in the castle for the first time in months.  

“your father will win this war,” she told robb, too young to understand anything that transpired around him.  “your father and mother shall both live, and you shall be lord of winterfell one day.”  there were tears of relief in her eyes even as she said the words, and she bent to kiss her son’s forehead.

when she pulled away, robb was making a strange noise she’d never heard him make before.  but more important than that–there was a smile on his face.  “are you smiling my love?” she asked the boy.  “are you smiling?  it was the first time she’d seen him smile.

she had not known how much she’d needed to see  _someone_  smile until her babe smiled up at her, and a more beautiful smile she’d never seen in her life.


	8. “Rhaelle, Egg’s little girl…used to call me uncle maester.”

“do you know who this is, my love?” betha asked.  the girl was so small in her arms, and was the only one of aegon’s daughters to share her mother’s dark hair.  

little rhaelle shook her head–indeed she buried into her mother’s neck, peeking out through betha’s hair to look at him.

betha rolled her eyes.  “she’s going through this phase–or at least i hope it’s a phase–where she’s frightened of everyone she meets.  none of her siblings were this way, and the gods only know neither aegon nor i ever were.  i don’t know where she gets it.”

aemon smiles.  “why, she must get it from me,” he said simply.  “i used to be terribly nervous around new people.  i’m your uncle, rhaelle.  your father’s brother.  i’m aemon, maester of the citadel.”

betha gave him a shrewd gaze, and he could read her eyes quite as surely as he’d ever read anyone’s.   _but for how much longer, aemon?  will you shed your chain for a crown, aemon?_

rhaelle only buried her face further in her mother’s neck.  “rhaelle,” betha said sternly.  “that’s no way to greet your uncle, and no way to greet a maester, either.  what do we say when we greet uncles and maesters?”

“it’s fine, betha,” aemon said to her quietly.  “the girl is shy, and young.”

“and it may yet be years before she sees you again,” betha said, and there was that gaze again, sizing him up.   _or will you stay, aemon?  will you stay and i shall curtsey to you until you die?_

“mayhaps,” aemon said.  “but she’s like as not too young to remember this.” 

but betha, ever stubborn– _you’ll love her, aemon, she’s as stubborn as i am,_ egg had written him–would have none of it.  she bent down and put her youngest on the pale red stone floor and took a step away.  the girl turned back to look at her mother, who now had her hands on her hips.  “go on.  you know what to do,” betha said firmly.

when little rhaelle turned back to aemon her eyes were wide and her lips were twisted in a nervous frown.  “hello, uncle maester,” rhaelle said.

“uncle  _aemon_ , dear,” betha corrected with a sigh.

“uncle maester will do just fine,” aemon said and he crouched down.  “hello rhaelle.  it is lovely to meet you.”

 

 


	9. merling queen (ursula)

“ursula, you must wed.”

that was her father’s voice–when her father had lived.  how he had despaired of her.  his only child, a daughter, and what to befall the isle when he died.  

 _i am a witch of witch isle, father_.   _when i wed–if i wed–it shall be the sea._

ursula had learned young the timing of the tides, the way the stars aligned, the sounds of birdsong.  ursula could see when things were wrong, and so when a bloody dawn rose in the east it sent a shiver up her spine.   _war_ , she saw.   _war across the sea._

* * *

to be a witch wife, you need only three things: the sea, a string of little white flowers called seafoam, and a knife to cut a line across your lips that when you drank the sea water, your blood would flow with the water against your kiss.

* * *

ursula wed the merling king, and he knew her for four days.  when she left the water, her bones thrummed with the magic of the tide and her lips were scabbed from the knife.  it was not so strange a thing on witch isle for a witch to emerge, married to the sea king himself.  it was rare, though, that an upcliff should be the bride.

_you see, father?  i am wed.  just as you always wanted._

_and i shall hold the isle, just as you always needed._

* * *

mainlanders rarely ventured to witch isle.  “a queer place, and haunted,” old women had laughed in their cups. “just like men, to fear a land of witches.”  but when the ship came with the runes of runestone painted on the sails, ursula met them, her husband swirling about her hips as they rowed towards land.  

“war,” ursula said to them and the men robar had sent looked between them.  she made an odd sight, her salt-curled hair, her scarred lips and her rock grey eyes.  “i saw the blood sun rise.  but does it come from north or south?”

“from the east, my lady,” said one of the men nervously.  he looked behind her.  there were no men on the shore–nor any women.  it was just ursula and her husband to greet the mainlanders.  “andals from andalos.”  the blood sun had risen in the east so the words did not surprise her as much as the men expected them to.  

“king robar,” said another through the quiet lapping of the waves, “he would treat with you–ask your aid in throwing them into the sea.”

she dropped a hand into the water and felt the gentle push of the tide.  she closed her eyes.   _would you like their blood, my love?  will you protect my home if i give you their blood?_

her skirts swirled and tightened about her legs for a moment, then released her once again.

“blood for my husband, then.  a gift for the merling king from his merling queen.”


	10. marriage & love (daenerys)

_daenerys–daenerys, wait.  listen to me, please–i love you._

“you are married, you should not love me.”

_i don’t love her.  i can never love her–not while i love you.  surely you know that._

_but she is the mother of your children.  is there no room in your heart, even for that?_

“you are married, you mustn’t love me.”

_i’m the blood of the dragon.  the dragon knows no must.  my father knew no must, nor did my mother.  she was not called the defiant for nothing.  you say i mustn’t?  i must, i say._

_so your vows mean little and less to you? have you only a bastard’s honor?_

_you seek to wound me, i know.  you seek to drive me away.  don’t you see-it only serves to enflame me.  i mustn’t? i do._

“you are married, i can’t love you.”

_they should be our children–yours and mine._

_don’t say that, brother.  they are your children._

_and would be still if you were the mother._

_but i am not, nor ever shall be.  you mustn’t–_

_the dragon knows no musts, daenerys._

_and yet you say i must love you.  do you forget?  i am a dragon too._

“you are married.  i don’t love you.”

_give me your favor to wear and i shall ride in glory of your name._

_no.  how many times must i say no, daemon?_

_you would not have me win? and crown you queen of love and beauty?_

_baelor rides well.  he may yet crown me should he win._

_you’d prefer the crown from baelor’s hand rather than mine?_

_i’d prefer no crown at all.  i am to wed maron.  he is a good man and sweet._

_and dornish._

_at least he hears what i say–not what he wishes to hear._

“i am married. i’ll never love you.”

_i ride in your name, daenerys, and when all is done i shall be king and you shall be, eternally, my queen of love and beauty._

_maron, my love, put this in the fire._

 

 


	11. viserys

_black dragon, or red?_

viserys read the words on the paper, with the lannister seal pressed into it at the bottom.  damon had felt no need to clarify the question.  and why should he?  gods only knew that it was clear enough what he meant by it.

he had not seen his targaryen cousins in years, not since his mother sent him from court.  viserys had no correspondence with them, for he was a plumm.  he may have the dragon's blood, but not the dragon's name, and out of sight, out of mind.  

he looked back down at the words in his hands.   _black dragon, or red?_

he knew damon better than he knew daemon.  (how strange--how similar their names!)  damon, he'd even thought, might be his friend, for all he was his overlord of lannister.  they'd gone hunting together.  and when his aging mother seemed to show no interest in finding him a bride, it had been damon who had clapped him on the shoulder and said, _"i'm sure between the pair of us we shall find someone suitable for you, plumm."_

_plumm, not dragon._

_"you look like him, you know,"_ damon had said once after he'd returned from a visit to king's landing, bearing a letter from princess elaena for the son she had not seen since he was seven.  

_"like who?"_

_"the red dragon, of course."_

viserys looked at the window.  he could see a reflection of himself in the glass.  he could not remember the look of daemon's face, though they'd played together when he had been very little.  he remembered that daemon had been there, though, for his mother had ever loved daemon's.  daena the defiant had borne him in solitude, and her sister elaena had had two bastards of her own, and then had married ossifer plumm, and he'd been born before too long.  

_black dragon?_

_red?_

viserys felt a chill up his spine.   _i'm neither,_ he wanted to say.   _i'm neither black nor red.  i'm a plumm.  i am the lord of house plumm._ save for the rumors.  

he was a good lord, he'd been told.  thoughtful, meticulous, with his mother's mind for finance.  his smallfolk seemed to like him, and his guards and knights were loyal.  that was all that mattered, wasn't it?  surely the quickness of his birth after his mother's marriage was that elaena had bedded lord ossifer before their wedding night.  

_why then would his heart have given out?_

_he was old.  old men die, sometimes._

_red dragon for his mother._

_and black?_

daemon thought he could claim a crown, and if he did, what then would that mean for viserys?  _if_ the rumors were true, and they did share a father, and  _if_ daemon won, what then?  would he be recognized?   _if_ it were true, then he alone of aegon's children had not been.   _a black dragon?_

he couldn't remember daemon's face.  he could not remember his mother's either, but if he knew one thing it was that his mother loved her cousin daeron and she had loved her sister daena.   _and me?  does she love me too?_ he wanted to believe that.

_black dragon, or red?_

was damon asking to suss him out, or asking for advice?  

_will i lead my friend to treason?  when i can't even be sure of the truth myself?_

_black dragon, or red?_

_i'm a plumm.  trueborn. with a targaryen look._

so he underlined the word red on damon's letter and put his own seal to it, and sent it back to the rock.

 


	12. alyssa

“come my loves, come quickly.”

“mother?”

jaehaerys rubbed sleep from his eyes, confused and alysanne wiggled her way to the edge of the bed.  

“mother, what’s happening?” her boy asked.

“up, my love.  we must go.”

“go?” jaehaerys looked at alysanne who was now standing next to the bed, her head cocked curiously at her mother.  

“yes, go.  grab your cloaks now.”

“mother,” alysanne asked slowly.  “mother, why do you have a sword?”

she had wrapped dark sister in plain brown cloth so that it would not be easily recognizable, but alyssa never carried a sword, so even though it was mostly hidden under her cloak, her daughter, her clever daughter, had noticed it immediately.

“i’ll explain later,” she said.  “into your cloak now, aly.  come.”

jaehaerys was finally out of bed and moving quickly, tugging boots on and going to find his cloak.  alysanne picked up a satchel by the wardrobe and began stuffing it with things–her hairbrush, some necklaces, a doll.

“aly, there’s no time for that, we must leave now.  we’ll come back for all that later.”

“why?” alysanne asked.  “what has happened.”

“your great aunt is dead,” alyssa said, and alysanne whipped around.  “she died earlier in the night.  if we’re to get out of this place we must leave.  and  _now_.”

“where?” jaehaerys asked now, and he threw alysanne’s cloak to her.  alysanne was crouching down now below the little dressing table and alyssa blinked as she saw her daughter dump the items she’d put in the satchel out of it and begin stuffing the thing with  _coins_.   _where did she get those?_

_where did i get the sword?_

pride swelled in her breast at the sight.

“driftmark,” alyssa said.  “your grandfather’s house.  he will know where to hide us from there, and driftmark is not so far if we can find a ship to carry us.”

“and if we can’t?” alysanne and jaehaerys asked at once.  both were ready, and cloaked.  alyssa lifted the hoods to hide their lovely, silvery hair.  

“we will,” alyssa promised.  “i swear we will.”

“is that dark sister?” jaehaerys asked pointing to the sword, and alyssa felt her neck stiffen, and alysanne looked sharply at her mother.   _is that you, gooddaughter? come to ease my aches and pains as i eased your husband’s?_

“yes, my love, it is.”

jaehaerys took a deep breath.  “good.  if she killed father, then we should have her sword.”

“never repeat those words,” alyssa said firmly.  

“but you said–” aly began.

“ _never_.  we do not know that she did, no matter how likely i think it is.  maegor is cruel and weak and–worse– _stupid_.  neither of you must ever be stupid.  we cannot afford it.  now come.”


	13. the sinner's steps (mellario)

“who is that man–the one who shines so bright?”

“the dornish prince, i believe,” areo told her quietly.

mellario could not look away.  

she had never seen a dornishman before, but that was not what captured her gaze.  there seemed to be laughter in the man’s eyes, though for some reason she did not know.  he was leaning and talking to one of his friends, whose lips also quirked in a smile.  the friend seemed to sing a line or too, and the dornish prince burst out laughing.

mellario wondered what amused him so.  

the bells were ringing–all three of them–and there was dancing in the streets.  all about her, she could see women in their finest wigs–mellario herself was wearing one of fine brown curls that her mother had given her at her last name day.  “i hope you shall wear it when you wed,” her mother had said hopefully, but mellario had yet to find anyone she was remotely interested in–so today seemed as good a day as any to wear the thing.  better than letting it gather dust.

in the lower city, she could hear drunken singing, as well as cheers at the sight of the bears dancing their way down the sinner’s steps.  the bears wriggled their great rumps and reared and seemed to shimmy to the music of the three great bells ringing so loudly it was said they could be heard all the way in pentos.  that, mellario did not believe, but after one moment, when nyel and noom rang at once, the high bell and the low, she saw the dornish prince clap his hands to his ears at the noise.

“come on,” she told areo and she cut her way through the crowd, knowing her guard would not be far behind her.  he was ever watchful, and he knew better than to try and stop her.  she approached the dornish prince, who was still watching as the bears danced their way down the sinner’s steps.

“and what has you so amused, my lord?” mellario asked.  her accent was thick–she knew that much for her teachers bemoaned it, but she was pleased at how easily the common tongue of westeros came to her lips.

the dornish prince looked around and bowed slightly in greeting.  “lady, the bears are quite a sight,” he said.

“they are,” she agreed.  “do they have no dancing bears in dorne?”

“a bear would melt in dorne–they dwell much further north,” the prince replied.  “but i am afraid you have me quite at a loss, lady, for you know me, but i do not know you.”

mellario tossed the hair of her wig over her shoulder, feeling the way the ringlets danced on her bare shoulder.  “i am mellario, daughter of magister vryel,” she said.  

“doran martell,” the prince said, bowing low and bringing her hand to his lips to kiss.

“doran martell,” she said, her tongue curling about the name.  she found she quite liked it.  “i think you are a liar.”

his eyebrows flew up his face.  “is that so?”

“yes.  and i would have the truth.  what amuses you so.”

prince doran’s eyes flickered to areo and his ash-and-iron wife.  “it is rather uncouth,” he said and his eyes seemed to blaze with the words.  

“with the bells ringing so loudly, i am sure that no one should hear,” mellario said, cocking her head slightly.  doran took a step closer to her and his lips were so close to her ear now as he whispered,

“i hear these steps are called the sinner’s steps.”

“they are, prince,” she replied.

“there is a song,” he whispered.  “that i feel safe in saying all men across the sea know, and one which i’m sure the septons would think fits in neatly with these so-called sinner’s steps.”  and he began to sing, in a lovely, deep, rich baritone, so close that she could feel his breath whispering across her ear, “a bear there was, a bear, a bear…”


	14. nothing rules the wind (lyarra)

“lyarra!  don’t!  you’ll be in trouble if someone catches you!  or worse–you’ll fall,” branda hissed as lyarra swung one leg out over the window sill and began to climb down, but lyarra did not listen.

lyarra never listened, and the moon was calling to her.

her father had once said she was as wild as a wolf.  that had made her mother laugh.  “wolves aren’t so wild,” she had said. “they have their own order–they run in packs, after all.”

“well,” rodrik had asked his wife, “what is more fitting?”

“the wind.  nothing rules the wind.”

lyarra had liked that.

she had liked that a lot, actually.

lyarra was four-and-ten when it was decided that she would wed her cousin rickard.  bring the branches of the family back together after the strife caused by lord beron’s progeny.  lyarra did not particularly like rickard.  he was stuffy, and didn’t like that she rode her horse faster than him, and didn’t like that she was always climbing things because her mother was always climbing things.  “girls aren’t supposed to,” he whined, and lyarra just stuck her tongue out at him.  her cousin was older than she was, but he was not yet a man.  his voice didn’t boom and crack, his cheeks were still peachy and devoid of even the threat of a beard, and he was  _short_  too.  lyarra could outrun him with her long legs.

 _faster than the wind_ , she would think as she did so.

rickard wanted branda, not lyarra.  branda was the good one, and lyarra the wicked one.  “if she’s the wind, shouldn’t  _she_  go to the stormlands?” rickard had whined.

“i have half a mind,” lord edwyle had said, laughing, “but no.  no, you’re going to marry lyarra, and branda will go to harrold rogers.”

lyarra was seven-and-ten now, and still wild.  her cousin edwyle made comments to her father–“she is a woman now, you should control her,” but the wandering wolf had simply shrugged and said, “i’ve seen many women in my life, nephew.  you learn better than to try at some point.”  

“you cannot tame the wind,” lady arya had added.  “harness it, perhaps, but tame it?  it will leave your sails on a whim unless you are masterful at your trade.”

rickard wasn’t masterful, lyarra thought as she climbed higher and higher, the stone cool and rough under her hands.  rickard was a stick in the mud.  she reached the parapet and sat down between two of the crenelations.  she looked out over winterfell.

the moon was high, and the winds were loud tonight and she could see for miles out over the moors.   _i don’t want to marry him.  i want to be free like the wind._

she could run away.  she could be like her father, and go across the sea and find her fortune somewhere else.  she could become a hero in a song, have tales sung of her.  she could find a boat and truly let the wind take her wherever it wanted.

off in the distance, a wolf howled, and the song was too familiar a song.

 _what is the wind without the songs of wolves?_ she wondered sadly, rubbing her knuckles against the stones of winterfell.   _there aren’t any wolves at sea._

even her father, who had traveled so far in his youth had come home in the end.

the wind ruffled her hair, tickling her skin.   _at least they cannot take the wind from me_.   _at least the wolves will know the true wild from me._  


	15. ned

“my lord, lady catelyn will arrive soon.”

“thank you, poole.” ned stood, his stomach twisting in a knot.  he had not seen lady catelyn since their wedding, and had barely spoken to her at all.  and now she was coming to winterfell with his son.  he had a son.  a little boy named robb, born in riverrun after one night with his wife.  if brandon were alive, brandon would clap him on the shoulder and make a comment very like robert’s when robert had learned.  or perhaps, brandon would stare at him coldly, for catelyn was suppposed to be _his_ , not ned’s.

 _the son should be brandon’s,_ he thought as he went to find his cloak–furs that felt far too grand for him, but which were like the ones his father had worn as lord of winterfell.   _and she will think that jon is mine.  she must think that jon is mine._

he’d sent ser rodrik to greet her on the kingsroad, and given the knight explicit instructions.  lady catelyn was not to be surprised at jon’s presence when she reached winterfell.  he would not have her shocked to find the boy, and would have her prepared to know that lyanna’s…that ned’s bastard would be a song of winterfell, quite as much as her own.   _but did she take it ill?_ he did not know.  brandon had described lady catelyn as not without pride, and ned fathering a bastard might be an insult to that pride.   _but she has a son too–a boy jon’s age.  perhaps she will understand._ he dared not hope on that.  gods be good, how had robert not feared this when he’d been betrothed to lyanna?  he must have always planned to leave mya in the vale, as lyanna had asserted.

he went out into the courtyard just as lady catelyn and ten tully knights passed beneath the gates of winterfell.  she was wrapped in furs and in her arms, a bundle whose size and wrappings ned was all too familiar with for he’d held jon in his arms as he had ridden all the way north from dorne.

“my lady,” ned said as he approached her horse, holding the bridle.  “i trust the road was not hard?”

she gave him a look and he could tell she wasn’t saying everything that crossed her mind.  there was a coolness there in addition to the distance–a coolness that had not been there when he had stood at her side in the sept in the wake of brandon’s death.  

“not hard, my lord,” she said.  she looked about for the wetnurse who must have ridden with them, to pass her son to, and ned said, “let me.”

she turned back to look at him, her blue eyes appraising, but he held out his arms, and a moment later she placed the babe there.

ned stared at his son.   _my son.  my heir.  robb._ he was bald, and sleeping, and his face was plump and peaceful.  ned felt his heart swell.  jon–jon he would always love, but he looked at jon and still could smell lyanna’s blood.  he would try, in time, to find joy in jon’s gaze, but robb–this was his boy.  this was his son, and ned…ned felt his throat grow thick and he ran a finger over the boy’s cheek.

robb opened his blue eyes, confused, taking ned in.  then his face broke into a happy smile.

“my lady,” ned said thickly, looking up at catelyn who had dismounted and was standing next to him.  “catelyn–he is perfect.”

catelyn’s face softened into a smile as well and she bent her head over the boy.

“robb my love, this is your father.”


	16. grandmothers (rhaella)

rhaella saw little of her precious boy in her granddaughter.

where rhaegar had been quiet, intent, thoughtful, even as a babe in her arms, rhaenys was wiggling, and loud, and curious.  where rhaegar had been peaceful, rhaenys was indomitable.  where rhaegar was hers, rhaenys was not.  

 _perhaps she is like loreza,_ rhaella thought as she watched elia–already too thin only a few months after her daughter’s birth–struggling with the girl.  loreza had been indomitable too, had been the sort to laugh in the face of any who would try to control her.  rhaella remembered loreza and joanna whispering together, both of them and their plans.   _she could do worse than being like her grandmother._

rhaella had written to loreza when rhaenys had been born.   _my dear princess loreza, rejoice, for we share blood at last._ loreza’s reply had been warm if distant, speaking of her children, of little arianne who would lead dorne one day, and how doran’s wife, the norvoshi mellario was pregnant again.   _and of course i should like very much to visit little rhaenys when she is old enough to know me,_ loreza had written.   _i long to see my daughter again, and you as well of course my queen._

rhaegar had been quiet, but rhaenys giggled when her mother tickled her.  rhaegar had learned to hold his secrets close as rhaella had done for how else to keep a mad king away from your heart of hearts?  but rhaenys was open.  rhaenys was joyful.   _if she must learn to be like me, then she must,_ rhaella thought without saying a word as she watched her granddaughter burbling.   _but i’d rather she be like loreza.  she’ll be happier that way._


	17. rhaella (elia)

elia woke early in the morning to her door opening.   _rhaegar?_ he had always come in the mornings on nights where he could not sleep.  

but no, it was not rhaegar.  rhaegar was gone.

it was rhaella.

“your grace,” she said sitting up.  in the darkness, rhaella looked unkempt, and elia went to the window to open the curtain and tempt some light in to see her  mother-in-law by.

“no,” rhaella said.  “don’t.”

elia paused, and looked at the queen curiously.  she was holding something–a basket.  and now that elia’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness she could see…

“gods,” she whispered.  “what happened?”

“the king,” rhaella said and her voice was emotionless.  it was usually cool when she spoke of aerys–but this was something entirely different.  “i am removing myself to dragonstone this morning and taking viserys with me,” she said.  “the king things it will be safer for us on the island, though whether from my cousin robert or from him i do not know.”

elia stood there and a shiver went up her spine.  she did not know what to say.  queen rhaella had ever been distant with her, though kind.  queen rhaella was distant with everyone, save rhaegar.  and rhaegar was gone now.  what could she say to her distant queen who looked as though she had been mauled by a monster?

“i asked,” rhaella said slowly, “whether you and your children might join us, but aerys refused.  he fears dorne’s loyalty and would keep you here to ensure that loreza does not rise with robert.  foolish–her grandson will sit the iron throne one day.  perhaps in time he will be more lucid and see that you, rhaenys, and aegon will be safer on dragonstone with me.  you are welcome to defy him if you choose and come aboard the ship with me…” her voice trailed away.

there was a bruise on rhaella’s neck.  in the semi-darkness, elia thought she saw teeth marks.  

“might that not mean retaliation against dorne?” elia asked slowly.

“i cannot know.  no one can with him anymore,” rhealla said with the voice of one who refused to be weary.  elia swallowed.  the king had burned his hand alive the night before.  what if he burned her uncle lewyn in her defiance?  she could not bear that.

“i will stay,” she said quietly.  “i do not fear robert half so much as–”

“i thought you would,” rhaella cut her off.  “you do not have to explain yourself.  you have always been a clever woman, elia.  it is what will make you a good queen to rhaegar one day.”

elia’s lungs expanded with air that she did not exhale immediately.  rhaella was distant.  rhaella was withdrawn.  rhaella had never praised her.

“here,” rhaella said and she handed the basket to elia.  “i must prepare to travel and i do not know if i shall leave before rhaenys awakens.  i should not like for her to see me like this, and she will be distraught with viserys gone.  give her this to play with until aegon is old enough to keep up with her.”

elia took the basket and opened it.  inside was a tiny black kitten, asleep.  

she looked up at rhaella and saw that there were tears in the queen’s eyes.  “tell her her grandmother will miss her.  tell her her grandmother loves her.”

 

 


	18. benjen

“you can’t go in there, ben,” ned said, grabbing his brother’s arm.  “lyanna’s sick.”

“but i  _want_  to,” ben whined.  it wasn’t fair.  ned and brandon could both go in–why couldn’t he?

“we’ve already had it,” ned said.  “and you’re too young.  you don’t want to get sick, do you?”

“i want to see lya,” benjen insisted huffily.

ned ruffled his hair.  “let her be sick.  then you can see her.”

ned turned him around and gave him a pat on the back, pushing him down the hallway.  “it’s not fair,” ben muttered.

“life’s not fair, little brother,” ned said gently.  

ben went off.  he avoided the courtyard–afraid that tommard would see him and make him practice swords again.  it made his arms hurt.  lya liked practicing with him, but she said that he couldn’t tell father when they did.  lya made it more fun than tommard did.

he went into the godswood.  father said that no one could disturb them at prayer, even if it was tommard saying he needed to get stronger and bigger like brandon and ned.  no one would bother him in the godswood, and if he couldn’t play with lyanna he didn’t want to play with  _anyone_.  

it was springtime.  lyanna loved the springtime.  she liked the flowers.  once she had made him a chain of flowers to wear around his neck.  brandon had come home to visit from the barrowlands and had nearly pissed himself laughing at the sight.  “you’ll turn him into a girl like you if you keep putting flowers on him, lyanna,” brandon had said.

“flowers don’t make a girl a girl, brandon,” lyanna had said and she’d plucked the garland off ben’s head and plopped it onto brandon’s head like a crown.  brandon had only laughed.

lyanna liked flowers.  she thought they were pretty and smelled nice, and liked weaving their stems together.  she was sick, and missing the flowers.

so ben decided he’d bring them to her.  he ran about the godswood, picking as many as he could find.  most of them were wildflowers–not the roses that grew in the glass gardens.  but he didn’t think he could cut those without someone noticing.  their stems were thick and hard to break and had thorns on them too.  he didn’t think lya would mind getting flowers that weren’t roses.

he picked, and picked, and picked, until his arms were full of flowers, then he snuck back into the castle, doing his best not to be seen.  if ned saw him, ned wouldn’t let him into her room again.  ned would probably be kind and take the flowers to her, but then she’d thank ned and not necessarily know that ben had been the one to think of it.  she’d love ned better than him, and then maybe she wouldn’t play at swords with him anymore and he’d be stuck with tommard for _ever_. 

but there was no sign of ned as he snuck towards lyanna’s chamber, nor of the maester, nor father.  he pushed open the door and saw her sitting there in bed, reading.  there were big pustules all over her face and arms.

“ben! you shouldn’t be here!” she said at once.  “you haven’t had them yet.”

“i brought you flowers,” ben said.  “and i’m not afraid of some stupid sickness.  i’m not a baby anymore.”

lyanna’s face melted into a smile.  “you are so a baby,” she said.  but she held out her arms and benjen scampered across the room, clambering up onto the bed with her.  she took the flowers from him and inhaled deeply.  “they smell so lovely.  thank you benjen.”

ben beamed at her.  “what are you reading?” he asked her.

“i don’t know,” lyanna said.  “i asked ned to bring me a book.  i’m  _tired_ of needle work to pass the time.  he grabbed one from the shelf without looking, i think.   _an account of the skinless war._ i think it’s about house bolton, but i haven’t got far enough yet.  can i read it to you?”

benjen didn’t much like the sound of a  _skinless war_ , but he wasn’t a baby so he nodded and snuggled down next to her.  

the following week, pustules appeared on benjen’s face and arms and legs, just as lyanna’s were starting to clear away.  but it had been worth it.


	19. elaena

“mother, i wish to wed.”

elaena looked up from her ledgers, squinting slightly.  her eyes grew tired more quickly of late, and adjusting from the tight, handwritten notes to the face of her eldest child took a moment, especially in candlelight.

she smiled.  “i suppose you are old enough by now,” she said.  “come.  sit.  we shall think of the right angle for finding you a bride.”

but jon did not sit.  his jaw was set, the way elaena remembered alyn’s jaw setting sometimes.  “no,” he said.  “no–i have found a girl.  a woman,” he corrected himself.  “on my own.”

“oh?” elaena was startled, but pleased.  her son had always been reserved, and she’d never known him to flirt.  he took his bastard status a little more seriously than he needed to, truth be told, and he was a fine looking young man.  but he’d never seemed interested in any of the young ladies about court, though they had definitely begun looking at him with curious gazes long ago.  “tell me of her.”

jon took a deep breath.  “she is the daughter of a silk merchant–and a struggling one at that.  i met her when she came to help fit jeyne for her wedding dress.”

elaena blinked twice.  “the little…brown-haired one.  blue eyed?  plump?”

“her name is heloise,” jon said.  

elaena leaned back in her seat.  “oh for gods’ sake, sit, jon.”  but jon did not sit.  he stood there, his jaw even more set, his arms crossed over his chest.  “you think i’m going to tell you no?” elaena asked him, eyes narrowing.

“i expect you to say it’s a better match for her than for me,” he said, “i expect you to try and dissuade me.”

he sounded just like his father.   _he is about the age i was when…_ when she’d come out of the tower, when she’d stood in the rain and felt like a growing plant, when she’d laughed and loved with alyn, and waited for him, when he’d died at sea with his babes in her belly.  “were you robin, i’d forbid it,” she said truthfully.  “or viserys.”

“i know,” jon said, “which is why–”

“you needn’t worry,” she said simply.

jon gaped at her.

“you found jeyne an  _arryn_  to wed–i’d expected you’d settle for no one less for me.”

“jeyne is a woman,” elaena said simply.  “our lot is hard in life.  finding a man who will not treat her as an object, a station that will protect her if she has no father’s name to do so–that was of paramount importance.  you though…” she took a deep breath, “i wished to marry your father for love, and would have done so.  no, it is not a fine marriage.  but if you’d take this heloise despite her lower status and what it would mean for yours…i’d have at least one of my children wed for love.”

jon didn’t say anything.  he was watching her closely.  

at last, he said, “you surprise me, mother.”

“good.  i should hate to be found predictable.  now will you sit?  tell me of her.  when do i meet her?”


	20. sharra

_“he drove me to this, mother.  he was weak, can’t you see?”  
_

_“jonos, what have you done?”_

sharra had climbed from the bed, her old bones creaking.  she had moved slowly.  how quickly she had run into the godswood when she’d heard the flapping of dragon’s wings, how quickly because that was where her ronnel was, her sweet boy, her sweetest...

_“ronnel’s gone flying again, mother.”  
_

ronnel had always loved to speak of the time queen visenya had taken him on dragonback.  nothing would ever be so exhilarating, he had told his brother for years.  jonos had been too small, hardly more than a babe in arms.  as if ronnel had been more than a brave child.  

and now he was gone.

_“you swore not to hurt him.  swore not to hurt any of them.”_

there had been anger in her voice.  alyssa arryn had not wept for the deaths of her husband, brothers, and children, but sharra had found herself screaming at her second son.   _oathbreaker.  kinslayer.  curse of my blood._

_“and when father died, he became king.  he forsook his oath to the vale.  it’s a wonder that his line was allowed to live so long.”  
_

then she had seen the blood on his sword.

_“even the children, jonos?”_

_“they were weak too, mother.”  
_

_“they were your nephews!  the blood of the kings of mountain and vale and the kings of winter!”_

_“no.  the blood of the lord of the mountain of the vale.  i am king.  i can deal with stark if he comes calling.”  
_

she had thrown herself at him, beating her fists against his chest, trying to slap his face, trying not to think of little artys, who fancied himself the falcon knight come again, or little aemma who had taken to climbing everything.  she did not let herself think of lysara, whose blood undoubtedly mixed with her children’s on sharra’s son’s sword, and the vertigo she had suffered from whenever she had to go up or down the mountain.   _“starks were not meant for mountains,”_  she had japed every time.  there had been tears on her face, and rage in her heart and her son had held her.

_“come, mother.  in time you’ll see why i did it.  when you’ve had your time to grieve.  this is for the better.”_

_“ronnel at five had more wisdom about dragons than you do as a man.”  
_

sharra looked at jonos’ face.  it was purple, and swollen alongside the men he’d used to take the eyrie and slay his kin.  how long they’d leave him in the noose, she did not know.

she leaned on a walking stick and looked across the courtyard of the bloody gate, feeling all of her seventy-five years in the weight of her necklace.  she saw king maegor standing there, arms crossed.  he nodded to her.   _he is a fearsome man._

_but his mother was kind to my ronnel._

she dipped into a creaky curtsey.

hubert, her husband’s nephew, was a good man.  he had kind sons.  he would make a strong lord of the vale.  

but he was not a child of her flesh. 

he’d never ridden a dragon.


	21. rhaena

on sunset, the day she was released from the tower, rhaena went to the sept–not baelor’s great sept, the white stone palace to the gods on visenya’s hill.  the little sept that she had prayed in as a girl.  

the glass had been refurbished, colorful now where it had been plain, and she took a candle to one of each of the altars before kneeling before the statue of the mother and praying.   _forgive me mother,_ she thought as her lips moved quietly.   _i meant to come–and would have had i been allowed._

daena had screamed of her husband’s hypocrisy, and elaena had been so quiet, though rhaena knew her little sister well enough to know there was a world of thought behind her sad eyes that she did not express.  rhaena… _i understood his piety,_ she thought to the mother, _i did.  and i forgave him for it.  but his piety wouldn’t let me pray to you._

the mother’s face was gentle as she looked up at it.  it looked nothing of her own mother–at least so far as rhaena could remember.  but that was all right.  the mother wasn’t _her_  mother, wasn’t daenaera velaryon of the tired eyes and the straight back.  the mother was the face of the gods, and the face of her own soul.   _i try to forgive him,_ she thought.   _i try.  it is hard, but i try.  is that enough?_

she heard footsteps behind her and turned.  her cousin was there, small as elaena and pale even in the half-darkness of the setting sun.  naerys crossed the sept and knelt down at rhaena’s side, her mouth moving quietly in the words of prayer that rhaena had just said.  naerys looked up at the mother’s statue as well, her eyes distant, then glanced at her cousin.

“i wasn’t sure if you would like company, or if you wished to be alone with the gods,” naerys said.  

rhaena smiled at her.  she loved her sisters, she truly did.  they understood her mind–but naerys understood her soul.

rhaena glanced around.  “baelor made it beautiful in here.  the glass.  the gods deserve this beauty.”

naerys gave her a modest smile.  “i had the glass redone,” she said.  

“it is beautiful, cousin.”  she took naerys’ hand, as naerys had so frequently taken hers when she’d come to visit the tower.  “you do them honor.”

naerys looked back up at the statue of the mother.  “i try,” she whispered.  “i…” she looked at rhaena and there was nervousness in her gaze.  “aegon would always compare me to baelor.  he would ask how i could be so foolish as to believe in any of it…” she swallowed.  “is it sad that sometimes i agreed with him?  not about the gods, but about baelor?  our faith shouldn’t do harm to those who believe.  and he wouldn’t even let you come to pray.”

how many years had naerys come to visit her and never once had she spoken ill of baelor.  always she had defended his desire to bring piety to the red keep, to king’s landing, and all of westeros, that he, and not her husband, was the ideal man, the man whose vision she could swear her life to.  then naerys looked up at the statue of the mother.  “i should not question him,” she said, “he was king–and a good one.  a holy one.  and yet…”

“holy acts can be done in unholy ways,” rhaena said.  “just as unholy acts can be done in holy ways.”  it sounded like something elaena would say, but she knew she spoke the truth, with the tongue of a septon.  “is that not what the seven pointed star teaches us?”

naerys looked at her, and there was doubt in her eyes.  “every time i read it, i think new things,” she confessed.  “which makes me love the words more.  sometimes….” she looked back at the statue of the mother, “sometimes i wish that aegon would release me of our marriage, that i might live a life of contemplation.”

“you’ve given him a son,” rhaena said.  “surely he would consider it.”

“would he?” naerys asked dryly, and rhaena took a deep breath.   _no, he wouldn’t._ she knew that.  she knew it as well as naerys did.  she gave her cousin a sad smile.   _the gods will reward her for her suffering when her soul ascends to the seven heavens._

it was what she’d told herself for years as she’d prayed quietly by herself before bed, her sisters not willing to pray to gods that had led baelor to lock them away.

“i am glad you are free,” naerys said at last.  “i truly am.  i have longed for someone to pray with here.”

rhaena took her cousin’s hand and squeezed it.  she knew prayer was private, that it was about your soul and the gods.  but she understood–by all the gods, she understood–her cousin’s lonely soul.


	22. alicent

“you came back.  you came to tend your ailing father.”

the king was senile.  jaehaerys the conciliator may once have been a great king.  but now his mind was feeble, his body frail, and his health was failing.   _he is old,_  alicent thought as she came to sit by the king.  

alicent did not much wish to tend to him, either.  “he’s not  _my_  grandfather,” she’d told her father, who’d given her a look.  “be dutiful, my dear.  be gracious.  be attentive.  when the king dies it will mean our continued place at court.”  alicent rather thought there were other ways to do this, but her father didn’t listen to her.  so here she was, sitting by king jaehaerys’ bedside as he reached a thin, liver-spotted hand to her.  at least he hadn’t fouled his bed this time.

“i did,” she sighed.  at first she’d tried to reason with him when first he’d confused her for his own blood.  (“your daughters had the silver hair of your wife, your grace.  i’ve brown hair.”  but perhaps his eyes were too feeble and his mind too old.)  now she did not bother.

“was it a long journey, my saera?” he asked her and he took her hand in his.  “was it hard?  i’ve missed you.  more and more as time goes on.  why did you leave?”

“i left…” alicent scrambled.  she knew the princess saera had fled court, knew that she had gone off across the sea where, it was said, she ran a brothel.  what a fine use of her status and blood.  “it doesn’t matter anymore, father.  what matters is i’ve returned.”

there were tears in the king’s eyes–pale now with cataracts.  “you look like your mother.  you just missed her.  she…she…”  and the tears dribbled down his cheeks.  

“she is at peace,” alicent said.  she’d attended the queen’s funeral, had seen the king’s distress at his wife’s passing.  perhaps that was what had destroyed him.  men at court–her father among them–had long said that queen alysanne had shared his heart and mind.  was it then little wonder that both seemed to be failing jaehaerys in his final days?

“peace…” the king said.  “that’s nice.  i tried to bring the realm peace, saera.  let it never be said i didn’t.  after the war my cousin maegor brought…” he began to cough, and mucus gathered at the corner of his lips.  

“don’t tire yourself, father,” alicent said.  “for my sake.  rest.  i’m here with you.”

the king looked at her, but he did not see her.  his eyes flitted about her face.  “i never forgot you, you know,” he said.  “not once.  i never… never could.  i hope you were happy away from court?  were you?  i only wanted happiness for all of you.  and peace.”

“i was,” alicent said dully, having no true idea if princess saera was happy or not.  

“good.  good,” the king said and his eyes drooped closed.  “good.”

and moments later, he was snoring, his hand limp in hers.  

alicent tucked it at his side.  she went to the desk in the corner and took up a quill, and began to write.

_princess, though i know not whether you still know yourself by that title,_

_your father is ailing and longs to see you before he passes.  i know the journey is long, and he may well have passed by the time this letter reaches you–would you consider returning from volantis to say goodbye?_

but even as she scratched the words she noticed the room was oddly quiet.  and when she looked up at the bed, jaehaerys the conciliator had stopped snoring.


	23. duncan

> …the blood of the dragon gathered in one… …seven eggs, to honor the seven gods, though the king’s own septon had warned… …pyromancers… …wild fire… …flames grew out of control…towering…burned so hot that… …died, but for the valor of the Lord Comman…

“lord commander,” came a quiet voice.  the princess was a small thing, barely more than a child.  her stomach was swollen with the babe that the king was going to honor, but her face was pale, and sweaty in the heat from the burning pyres.  “lord commander, i feel faint.  it is too hot.” 

“take my arm, princess,” dunk said, offering it to her, and rhaella took it, holding it a little too tightly.  dunk rested his hand on top of hers, patting it.

“how much will it burn?” princess rhaella asked.  “i should like to sit, but i do not wish to disappoint grandfather.”

_“there will be dragons again, dunk.  dragons.  like my brother dreamed… dragons for my grandson.”_

“wildfire burns for a good long while i’m afraid, princess,” dunk told her.  “it burns and burns and burns until there’s nothing more for it to burn.”

“do you think that dragons will actually be born?” she asked, looking at the seven pyres.  “that the heat will be enough for the eggs?”

“the king thinks so,” dunk said.  dunk himself was less convinced.   _and if they don’t, having made the poor girl go through all this…_

princess rhaella had spent the past year and a half miserable.  she had not wished to wed her brother, and had taken no particular joy in being pregnant.  she had had such trouble eating for the smell of food had made her retch, and her arms had grown thin even as her belly had swelled.   _i hope the babe will give her joy, at least.  she deserves that much._

the princess made a noise and dunk glanced at aegon.  his eyes were full of wildfire, and he was chatting happily with duncan, peace between the two at last.  

“i suspect he won’t mind if you go,” dunk said to the princess.  “it is too hot in here, and your discomfort will be bad for the babe.  go for a walk across the river.  the rest of the castle will be too hot.”

rhaella looked between dunk and her grandfather.  “are you sure?”

“i am.  if he grows angry, i will intercede, i swear it. you shouldn’t be here if you feel faint.”

“thank you, lord commander.”  rhaella sounded relieved.

“bring someone with you,” he called after her as she began to make her way slowly towards the gate of the courtyard.  two of her ladies–the little lannister girl and cassana estermont–heard his raised voice and looked after rhaella.  they went to her side at once, wrapping their arms around her waist to help her carry her weight.  from behind, without the swell of the child within her, she looked even smaller, even younger.  

behind him, he heard shouts of laughter, and he turned to look back. someone was singing a bawdy song, waving a glass of wine in the air.  through the smoke, dunk could not see who it was, but he could see the wine sloshing through the air as the man swayed.

“careful,” he boomed at the man.  “you don’t want to get that on the wildfire.”   _piss on wildfire and your cock burns off._ there’d be no stopping the wildfire if it got loose from the pyres.

“you worry too much, old man,” the younger one called back and dunk stiffened as he watched the man tip his goblet onto the flames entirely, and dunk heard himself scream, “no!” as the flames crackled up delightedly to drink the wine and the arm of the man who’d poured it.


	24. torrhen

“how many times must your knees bend, old man?”

torrhen sat up straighter and looked rickon dead in the eye.

“you are my son,” he said quietly, “and i love you for it.  speak like that again to me and you’ll regret it.”

rickon had the look of an overgrown pup, all limbs whose size he had yet to fully grow into.  he was trying to grow a beard as well, but it was growing in patchily for he  _was_  still a boy.   _old man._ where had he gotten that talk?  from the guards? from his lords bannermen?   _from brandon?_

but brandon was gone now, gone across the sea with hundreds of others.  “ _the only king we kneel to is the king in the north,”_ he had said angrily.  he had plucked a blue winter rose as he’d turned.   _“something to remember the north by,”_ and he’d left.  

rickon squared his shoulders.  “you let them arrange a marriage for your daughter.  you  _let_  them.”

“aye, i let them,” torrhen said.  “you are too small to remember how big dragons are, and how hot their flames burn, and how many would die resisting them.”

“but the resistance would be worth it,” rickon snapped.

“your life, and mine, and countless others?  i think not.  i decided not,” torrhen said firmly.  “if you’re to rule winterfell one day, rickon, let us be clear on this: the lives of those you rule will always be more important than your own.”

“but you let this targaryen queen–”

“aye, i let her.  i’m not a king.  i bade manderly send his daughter to karstark, and hornwood take glover’s son for his daughter.  they were my lords, they did as i said.  i am aegon’s lord–if his queen bids lysara wed to ronnel arryn, so be it.  what good comes in resisting when my knees have already bent?”

“pride,” rickon said at once.  “our pride should still thrive.”

“it was gardener pride that led to the end of their house.  i’d sooner live.  winter is coming, and winter is hard, but the starks endure.   _enduring_  is the important part.   _pride._ i’d sooner be an  _old man_  than a green boy once again.”

torrhen watched his son.   _be a man, not a boy,_ he thought as he watched rickon’s face.   _be my son, not brandon’s nephew._

rickon stood.  “i won’t attend the wedding,” he said firmly.  “i refuse.”

“there must always be a stark in winterfell,” torrhen said.  “you shall practice ruling while i take your sister south.  perhaps that will make you see sense.”

“lysara doesn’t like the mountains.  she doesn’t like heights.  she won’t be happy in the vale.”  this time, rickon sounded like a boy pleading for his sister.  torrhen’s heart softened, if only ever so slightly.

“lysara is brave.  she has the wolf blood, like you.  she’ll make the best of it.  as you would in her stead.” 

_as i must.  as we all must._ _we are not kings anymore._


	25. lyarra (rhaella)

“will you stop it?”  rhaella did not think that they had noticed her.  how odd, to go unnoticed in her own halls.  but lord stark was glaring at his wife.

“so you’re not going to tell the king, then?”

“i do not think that now is the time any longer, lyarra,” lord rickard hissed.

lyarra flared.  “and so we rode all the way from winterfell for what, then?  to enjoy the king’s hospitality? some summer heat before the cold?”

rickard heaved a long-suffering sigh.  “as if you wanted to listen.”

“you never give me the opportunity.  you decide before even giving me the option to counsel you.”

“perhaps because after all these years, i know what council you would give better than you do yourself.”

“oh i like that,” lyarra laughed.  “always so clever, aren’t you rickard?”

rickard turned.  “when you are reasonable, we will discuss the matter more.”

“well, you never think i’m reasonable, so i don’t see why we should do this on your timeline, because if we did, we’d never discuss it again.”

“perhaps that would be wise.  an excellent suggestion.”  lady lyarra made an angry noise that sounded almost like the growling of a wolf, but lord rickard spoke again.  “let it be, lyarra.  now is not the time.  for once in your life, just listen to me.”

and he went.  rhaella watched as lyarra whirled, her skirts snapping as she marched back through the corridor and—

“your grace,” she said, stopping short.  she sank into a quick curtsey.  “forgive me, i did not see you.”

lyarra stark was tall—taller than rhaella.  she had a long face and dark grey eyes and looked very like her husband.   _she is his cousin,_ rhaella remembered learning once.   _they look a pair, as i do to aerys._

_and as well matched, i see._

“please rise, my lady,” rhaella said, and lady lyarra did.  there was a hard look in her eyes, a defiance, a pride that rhaella… _joanna would have me have that look,_ she thought.  _joanna would have me stare aerys down with the fire of a dragon._ joanna, whom she had once called friend, and who now thought her weak.  did they all think her weak?   _i am the blood of the dragon._ “what was it that your husband would tell the king?”

“how much did you hear?” lady lyarra said, her voice quiet.  it was a rich voice, musical, and those grey eyes were hypnotically intent.  

“enough,” rhaella said.  “you rode south to tell the king…something.”

“that my lord husband would have remain unsaid, apparently,” sighed lyarra.  “make no matter of it, your grace. i wouldn’t trouble you.”

“not even for the spite of it?  i shan’t tell my husband,” rhaella said gently, and lyarra stark’s lips twitched, not in a smile or a frown, but in bitten-back surprise.  “it can be our secret,” she said.   _dragons keep no secrets from dragons,_ aerys had once told her, when demanding to know if she’d taken a lover and that was why the gods had cursed her womb.   _did wolves?_

if she were bolder, if she had joanna’s confident subtlety, she would have said the words flickering in her mind.   _i know what it is to be disregarded, my lady.  so know my regard._ but she held her breath and waited for lady lyarra.

lady lyarra was still watching her with a stiff neck and deep eyes, clearly thinking carefully.   _let her think.  i have nothing to hide from her._

but when lyarra finally moved, it was to give the queen a smile.  “forgive me–i am bad at keeping secrets from my husband.  they tend to fly from my lips when i am wroth with him and that only makes it worse, and i’d not break my queen’s confidence.”

rhaella bit back a sigh.   _perhaps some women aren’t born to bear secrets,_ she thought,  _or perhaps lord rickard’s disregard is easier to manage than aerys’._ “i understand,” she said.  “come, walk with me.  i would hear of winterfell,” she said and lady lyarra fell into step beside her.   _we walk together._ _but we walk alone._


	26. ned

_“you’re a softspoken boy, ned, but there are times when you will need not to be.”_

ned’s heart is thumping hard in his chest.  there were so many of them across the river.  

_“war is hell, and if you don’t yell with all your might, your men won’t hear you, much less the gods.  what’s the good of being a battle commander if you can’t be heard?  so you must learn to be loud.”_

ned’s hands tightened on the reins.  in the distance, on the northern side of the trident, he could see jon’s banners, he could robert’s, he could see lord tully’s.  a whole host of men that weren’t his, but who fought at his side.  he glanced over his shoulders and saw his own banners, flapping gently in the wind.  

_“a good commander needs a good battlefield voice.  best learn that before the war begins.  i had to learn it on the field and it cost men lives–and nearly my own.”_

jon had told them both that–both him and robert, but he’d taken ned aside afterwards and given him a smile.   _i needed it more,_ he thought.   _i was a green boy, then, and never thought to be lord of winterfell, warden of the north…_  he looked back at the banners again.  they should be brandon’s, or his father’s.  the black and red banners across the river had taken his father and brother from him now.   _aren’t you supposed to feel anger when going into war?_ he felt nothing at all, a cold emptiness that was worse than rage.  he felt his eyes harden as he looked across the river.   _rhaegar targaryen has my sister.  where is lyanna?_

_“it’s hard with men dying at your command, but you must keep a cool head.  the men won’t break so long as you don’t break, and when men break in war the battle is lost.  be stable.  be loud.  plant your feet–or if you’re ahorse sit up straight and tall.  keep your shoulders squared.”_

ned squared his shoulders.  rhaegar targaryen had taken his family from him, but he had his family by his side.  a man who was close to him as a brother, the man who’d raised him as a son, the father of his wife and grandfather of his son, and in the whipping of banners behind him, he heard the howling of the wolves of winterfell.


	27. artys

“it smells of goat shit,” complained martyn.  “and the air’s too thin.  i’m getting dizzy.”

“you could be with hector, facing men down in the valley,” artys replied airily.  “but since you elected to join me on this, you really don’t have anything to complain about.”

martyn grumbled.  “i spent too much time with goat shit on my mother’s steadhold, i don’t need goat shit in this kingdom you’d claim.”

artys laughed and turned and pointed over his shoulder.  “hector is back that way.  he’s hard to miss.  he’s the one in my armor.  go on, then.”

but martyn didn’t go, as artys had known he wouldn’t.  martyn liked to complain, quite as much as artys enjoyed making fun of him for complaining.  

“how do you even know this will work?” martyn asked, in a tone that implied he was now just having fun now.  “we’re tredging up this stupid mountain on a path covered with stupid goat shit and what if they’re waiting for us?  do you really think we can take them in the rear?”

“i seem to recall,” artys snorted, “that this was your idea.”

“it most certainly wasn’t.  no plans of mine would  _ever_ involve goat–”

“the bit with the misdirection and the decoy–that was definitely yours,” artys said.  “‘send some goon out in your armor and take a nap.’ gods know i wouldn’t have thought that on my own.”  

 _too bloody chivalrous for it,_ he thought in hector’s voice.  or was it martyn’s?  did it matter?  they were always making mock of how seriously he took his honor–a great irony that was not lost on him as he led men through the mountains to take royce’s force in the rear.   _tactics, not dishonor,_ he told himself, hoping that it was true.

they made a good triad–he, martyn, and hector.  artys had the strategic mind, martyn the child’s laziness that somehow managed to produce moments of brilliance, and hector the sheer brute strength.  as a boy, he’d been jealous of hector and his strength, until hector had smacked him upside the head and said in a great, deep, booming voice, “as if you couldn’t take anything i won with that strength from me, you wily bastard.”

which, artys supposed, was why he was the one trudging up this goat path with martyn to claim seat and crown from robar royce and not hector serran.  that and because he highly doubted that hector had the patience for the task.  there wasn’t a battlefield that hector didn’t want to be in the middle of.

“are you calling hector ‘some goon’?” martyn demanded, feigning horror.  “he’s bleeding for you.  possibly dying for you.”

“i believe it was you that called hector ‘some goon,’ not me,” artys replied dryly.

martyn was right, though: the air was thinner than it had any right to be.  up above him, he could see the white caps of the mountains, where there was always snow, and the line where the trees stopped growing.   _much higher than the velvet hills, eh?_ he thought at no one in particular.

“let’s rest here,” he called out to the men behind him.  they still had some miles to go before the path descended into the valley again.  the fighting would be beginning soon, if he had any guess.  he couldn’t hear the clattering of steel yet, nor the sounding of horns and drums, though he imagined he would.  everything echoed up here.  

he wished he could see for certain what was going on, even if he couldn’t hear, but the path was too wooded for them to catch anything more than the rare glimpse down into the valley.   _i suppose hector isn’t the only impatient one,_  artys thought as he shed his sword and shield and pulled himself up onto a branch of a nearby tree, beginning to climb as close to the top as he thought would support his armored weight. 

“oh look at our king now.  positively a monkey, isn’t he?  trying to show off all his acrobatic skill on the eve of battle.”

“morn of battle,” artys corrected, “and yes.”  the men chuckled.   _good,_ he thought, _better laughing than frightened of failure.  it is harder to conquer than to defend._

the wind rustled the leaves about his head and artys closed his eyes and breathed deeply.  he’d get used to the thin air when he was king of these mountains.  he’d get used to the strange scent of the sap of trees whose names he did not yet know.  

 _we won’t fail._ he could feel it in his bones, in his blood.

how could they?  he, martyn, and hector could conquer the world if they wanted to.


	28. the winged knight

_but can you fly?_

the griffin king had laughed at him.  “fly, little boy, if you can.  with that bird on your shield.”  

erren had painted it himself.  he’d always liked drawing.  his mother said that it was the river in him, for he had played in the mud as a babe.  “i don’t want my son in the river,” his father said.  “he should be playing with shadowcats, not otters.”  he’d spent his boyhood drawing shapes in the mud, though.  his mother thought that they were waves.

but they were birds.

erren closed his eyes and searched within him, stretching his mind.  his father said that shadowcats made good skins, and his mother spoke of bears.  but erren preferred water to earth, and preferred air to water.   _lucky, for the griffin king dwells atop the giant’s lance?_

_can i fly?_

he’s tried wearing skins before.  he’s tried with smaller birds–ravens that live in the forest.  the children of the forest say they make for good skins, but their beaks aren’t sharp enough for what erren wants.  

the falcon is stronger.  it has wider wings, and the mind of a king.  it bucks him as a horse would.  erren is not strong ahorse–he’s always preferred water to earth, and air to water–but he is strong enough to catch the wind beneath his feathers as he flaps on falcon’s wings, higher, and higher.  

he can fly, he can–and so he does.  up he soars, letting the falcon’s muscles take over for it knew what to do.  he circles the lance, higher and higher until he sees the griffin king sitting atop a throne etched from living stone.  the griffin king is drinking, his face is flushed from it and his mouth is lolling open.

his eyes are big, red targets.

erren takes his eyes first–two quick pokes with his beak.  the air takes the rest as the griffin king wails and stumbles off the edge of the lance.


	29. long live the king (alyssa)

“your grace, your son is dead.”

_another one?_

“the king…” alyssa turned her eyes sharply to the man-at-arms who backtracked.  “maegor–he left the prince’s body in the courtyard of the red keep for you to claim.”

cool crawled across alyssa’s skin.  her boy, her smiling boy, who had always wanted to be a knight, who had never liked to eat his peas, who had liked reading to his brother and sister before bed–dead.  dead and mutilated if she had to guess, for maegor was cruel.  how much had he rotted in the time it had taken to get word to her?  had his cheeks caved in? were there flies buzzing buzzing buzzing over his putrefying corpse? she hoped–prayed–at least his eyes were closed.  he had such lovely eyes, sharp and clear the way, they said, queen rhaenys’ had been.  or perhaps the crows would have plucked those sweet organs out already, to leave the sockets vacant.  his heart had stopped.  there would be no blood.

“your grace–”

“leave,” she said in a voice not her own and the man withdrew at once, closing the door behind him.  she stared at the door for a moment.

the good thing about the driftmark was that she had no memories of viserys here.  he had spent no time in these halls, running about on small feet, trying to catch aegon in a game of tag.  she couldn’t hear him humming tunelessly to himself, feel the tug of him on her skirts when he was tired and wished to be  _held._ in her mind, he was so frequently the little boy he had been, not the man he nearly…had nearly become.  

she turned and went to the cushioned bench that jaehaerys and alysanne were standing on.  there were tears in jaehaerys’ eyes and alysanne was rubbing her nose, her lip trembling.

“he will pay for this,” she promised them.  “he will pay, and we shall give viserys the burial he deserves.”

“are you going?” jaehaerys asked, frightened.  

alyssa shook her head.  “no,” she said.  “no, if i go we are lost.  you are lost.”  she stroked his cheek.   _he looks like both of my dead boys._

_i must not weep in front of them._

“you must never be lost,” she whispered, then took a deep breath and took the golden circlet that aenys had placed on her head when they’d wed off her brow.  “the king is dead.”  she pressed it onto jaehaerys’ head.  “long live the king.”


	30. dawn

“the first thing you thought when you saw the star was _i know.  that will make the perfect sword_?”

dawn was teasing him, he knew that.  the smile was playing at her lips the way it did whenever she was playing with their daughter.  “ _you are such a child sometimes,”_ she would tease him when he pressed her nose in bed and kissed her face and tickled her belly.  

“well,” he said, letting her amusement wash over him, “it does.  look at it.”  he showed her the metal.  “it’s strong.  even heller isn’t sure that it will melt down properly for crafting.  can you imagine what it would be like as a sword?  never breaking? never growing dull?”

“and glowing like the break of day, giving you away to anyone you’d attack by stealth.  yes.  yes, i know.”

“it will be beautiful,” he told her.  

“true,” dawn replied. “that much is true.  you’ll ever be known as the man with a beautiful sword.”

“you’ve called my sword beautiful morning, noon, and night.”  it was his turn to tease now.  “i never thought you were a liar.”

“i didn’t know beautiful swords until i saw that lump of star you brought home.   _that_  will be a beautiful sword.  yours pales in comparison.”  he made a sound of fake affront and she chuckled and pulled him close.  “but i suspect if you keep that one sheathed at night, yours will still be the more beautiful in the dark.  let that be the sword of the morning.”

he looked at the lump of star metal.  it was glowing, just as she said.  glowing like the dawn.  “a sword men will envy until the end of days,” he said.  “a sword of kings.  a sword of our house.”

“are you talking about the rock, or your manhood?”

“can’t it be both?” he asked and he picked her up, laughing.

“you’ll need a good name for it,” she said.  “if it’s as fine a sword as you say it is–the making of our house, born of a star.”

he looked at her.  “dawn,” he began then froze.  

“you know i’m right,” she said, mistaking his reason for stopping.  “i know you hate admitting that i’m right, but if you’re presenting _our son_  with an heirloom for him to pass on to his children, and their children, and their children, until house dayne is nothing more than legend, it had better have a good name.”

“dawn,” he said again.  “i shall call it dawn.”   _you are the dawn of day, the dawn of our house.  they must remember you._

dawn blinked at him.  she opened her mouth for a moment, for once at a loss for words.

“sword of the morning,” he said quietly, “glowing like the break of day.  dawn.”


End file.
